


Hîr vuin, ah im, ú-'erin veleth lîn? (My Lord, do I not also have your love?')

by orphan_account



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A very unpopular pairing, Angst, As You are I Am, But is possibly an AU of an AU, Dealing with death and dying, Friends to one night stand lovers, Legolas POV, Lengthy smut, Lots of inaccurate Quenya and Sindarin, M/M, Mentions of past mpreg, Onesided FOD (kind of), Slow Elven Foreplay, Spinoff, The author does not know if AU applies here, Tree hopping, Tree tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 01:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Rilien is dying, and Legolas must make a very difficult decision...with even more difficult consequences.





	Hîr vuin, ah im, ú-'erin veleth lîn? (My Lord, do I not also have your love?')

**Author's Note:**

> **Note** This is a spinoff from the end chapters of As You Are, I Am. The premise being if Legolas had acquiesced-only once-to the idea of Rilien’s love for him, and-with Aragorn’s blessing-granted him one night to do what he wished. This would have occurred sometime in the beginning of chapter 48; when Aragorn mentions spring ‘waxing and waning.’ I am aware that this is not going to be a popular pairing, but it was something I’ve been turning over. The only thing I could say regarding this is that it’s not meant to be canon with the main fic. It is, effectively, a spinoff, and thusly not integral to the plot.

If you have found these pages, _mellon-nin_, then I must congratulate you.

I must, because I hid them far from prying eyes and curious hands...from the ever-present inquisition of Man and Elf and Dwarf...and perhaps even Hobbits. I am a ruler, and a ruler must have his secrets...he must have his tiny, winsome, hidden things...even if in my case, my hidden scandal was but one...and small-though not in meaning-and done with love. If you thought that perhaps I was perfect, then I might think you silly...or that you have not read Our story correctly...or perhaps you have read it with too much faith in the steadfast nature of elves and those who carry Isildur’s blood. I am as far from perfect as _Anor_ is from _Ithil_. I am an elf...an old elf...but that makes me no less fickle, nor less ‘maddening’, as my love would put it.

It is true that my kind are wont to wait for their truelove.

I will not confuse you and refute such a thing, for there is verity in such a statement. I, for example, took no lovers...and was untouched when Elessar took me...on our wedding night...as was he. A virgin concept, I suppose, of course it was. It does not diminish the great tangibility of those moments...of those hours we spent abed learning one another. If I must be so blaise, it is not in carnal acts that one finds their truelove; not really. It is in words...words spoken, words exchanged, and actions carried through. The night I kissed Aragorn...drunken, enraged and against the flank of a cow, I pledged my troth to him, though he did not know it...and perhaps then I did not know it. But I also pledged my troth to him when I taught him to catch fish in the Anduin...when I spoke to him in the deep and dark of Moria...when I lingered next to him at the fire...in Rivendell...when I was overlong in my goodbyes in the halls of my _Adar_.

So we pledge our troths...whether solidified by legislative means or not...to our beloveds. In time...in knowledge and in trials and suffering. Through laughter and joy...tears and sorrow. Those who linger...those who look...we know. We know where our trueloves are in our hearts...as surely as the once-undying light of Telperion and Laurelin...we know their shining solace...their gentle, shimmering, flickering brilliance. So Aragorn was to me...my Ranger from the North...the mortal man with calloused hands and eyes that pierced my very soul. The Dunedain who would not be King...but became a great King all the same. And I did not know it when I saw him first...of course I wouldn’t have...he was but a child. I did not know that the little boy who followed me through Rivendell was Fated to be the Keeper of my heart.

But I am not here to tell you of this love.

I am not...but I confess that now that I have brought us here...I am unsure of how to go on. Some of this may upset you...and I would beg your forgiveness...for that is not my intention. Only you have looked for this long...looked for more of my words and now that you have found them you must abide by them or set them aside ‘lest we find ourselves at odds. And perhaps you shall read on in any case...and I hold no grudges against you for doing so, _mellon-nin_. I ask only that you continue carefully, with your heart open to what I have to say...and if not your heart, then your mind. For in life we are faced with many conundrums, many challenges, and many surprises. Some are unpleasant, some are wholly ghastly to behold...as you have witnessed in Our tale. But some...some linger...some become something wrought in starlit secrecy...of breath and body and wanton promise but for one single timespace. Some are flickering...painful reminders of that which we have lost...and we must abide by them...we must acknowledge them...and so I do now; here...in these hidden missives.

Rilien loved me.

I say this without pride, and without any measure of authority or smugness. I confess, as you know, that when I first became aware of it...his love frightened me. Rilien was ill-mannered, intemperate and unpredictable. He was violent...unkind...he was all things that I had been taught to abhor and distance myself from once I learned of his true intentions. He tried to kill me...he tried to murder my unborn child...but he did it not for himself...but for his own son. As a parent...as an _Adar_ to many, many children...I could not hold such desperation against him...not for long. When he was well, Rilien was loyal, he was witty, he was intelligent and vastly helpful. Rilien was creative in ways that I could not _dream_ to be...and he shared his insights with me at no price, save that he be allowed to advise me...save that he would serve me...until the end of my days.

But of course...you know that he served me until the end of his.

I do not know...I do not know if I have the strength to tell you of what it took to free his spirit from this world. I can only say that it was done. Ainion came home...he battled Yusraa, and he took the knife to me...he took it to me as I stood beneath the white tree. My poor _ionneg_; born with such a heavy weight on his shoulders…such great expectations placed on such a tiny, beautiful child. He was grown then...taller than I...with his silver eyes and hair...with Aragorn’s kingly bearing and my careful consideration of all things. He gave the knife to me...with its ugly...twisted blade and I stood there...beneath the sky for three days. Three days I held him...held his spirit...what was left of it. I wondered if he would be proud...if he would know what we had done...what my son had done...what we had sacrificed.

I think he would have laughed at me.

I say this fondly...but I know he’d have laughed at me. I was tired by then…_old_ if I must go there. Aragorn was close to passing on...he still is...and I did not know if I had the strength in me to let him go.

_”Ai, Leg’las”_ he’d have said. _”Man ceril? I dhôl gîn lost, leithio nin.”_

And I did...I did let him go...even if it took me three sunrises and three sunsets to do it.

But I am, again, not here to talk to you about this.

Perhaps I am not talking to anyone...perhaps these words remain...moldering...lost to time. And what would it matter? I do not care if my words are lost...merely that they are said...that I have said them. Because I fear that in not saying them I would not do him...my friend...my council, justice. I fear that Rilien had very little justice to his name in life...even in the pages We have given you. So I will do this for him...for my broken...ruined Advisor...because I think it would make him laugh. And he did laugh; Rilien laughed often. He laughed as if the world perhaps had nothing to offer him and that he could do naught but greet that nothingness with the encompassing cacophony of his derisive mirth. At times I wondered at it...wondered how he could smile, how he could flick his wrist and make it seem as if all was for naught but still dreadfully humorous. Maybe it was how he survived...I couldn’t tell you. Only that he greeted me...every day...every night, with that riotous grin...with his bangles and his ridiculous clothes and overly decorated hair…

He greeted me...and he loved me.

Love is no small thing for the children of the Valar.

I knew this...Aragorn knew this. And so when he looked at me with such love...with such all encompassing, unexpecting, and limitless love...I could not help but feel that perhaps I owed him some small fealty. In the end...it was not I...but him...that paid me yet more fealty. But I feel that it is perhaps selfishly prudent to mention that I went into it with good intent...even if it did not necessarily culminate into what I expected. Rilien mentioned the _elleth_ that came into his care...Alassea...I believe her name was. The mother of his child...she who he loved before me...but I do not know if he loved her...not truly. I do not know if Rilien was well enough to love her at the time when he sired a child with her. Locked away in his mother’s wicked wiles...driven only to usurp...I do not know what ‘love’ looks like to a mind so twisted by murder, by deception...by fear. I cannot, in good conscience...say for certain that he did not love her. But I do not think that he loved her as one loves someone in a setting that has given them growth...I think it was a frantic love...borne from a kind of forged dependence and terrible pain.

Still...Rilien’s love of me came with an equally terrible agony.

This is where I will confuse you, because the love of an elf is something that does not fade...it does not diminish as the years go by. My love of Aragorn did not diminish because of what I did...but I do not regret it nevertheless. But Rilien was Fading...and he was Fading so quickly it was an issue of prevalent and great concern. Aragorn does not mention this, and I asked him not to because at the time, the subject was not prevalent to the core of the plot. Those were his chapters, and I did not want to encroach upon them by asking him to narrate such a thing-however briefly-because it would have thrown everything to pieces, and we did it in secret. It was arranged in secret, and so we did not record it at the time...because it was not necessary. This is why I think that perhaps Rilien’s love of Alassea was not a thing of elvish constructs; because he did not Fade with her death. Yet despite the fact that I was alive and well...his withering had come upon him...and it came upon him as swift and sure as the first frost of winter...even though it was spring.

Valinor was a subject of discussion.

We thought he might sail...but he refused. _Ai_, but sometimes I wish he had gone...even though I know that if he had, none of us would have survived to see Yusraa destroyed. Rilien could have sailed, and then he would not have lingered in such dark memory for so long. He would not have had to endure being an aimless spirit in a world that cared not...save for those who remembered him. I cannot claim to know what he felt..if he felt anything at all...during that time...only that I wished it, quite desperately I wished it, otherwise. But he would not sail because he feared for me...he feared for Ainion, and he feared, dare I say it, for the Kingdom and for Aragorn. Rilien was ferociously loyal, and at the time I cursed his loyalty, because I feared that it would be his undoing. He struggled to eat...to function in the most basic of tasks...but not because he didn’t want to...merely because his heart was tethered to someone who could not possibly love him back. Perhaps it was fitting...you might say...fitting that my would-be murderer would murder himself with his own proclivities...but I tell you...no death is worse than the slow death of an immortal whose heart belongs to someone who cannot give him love in return. And so I gave Rilien the only thing I had to offer.

I gave him myself.

Do not misunderstand; I did not give him my heart...not all of it, in any case; I could not. My heart has ever, and will ever, belong to Aragorn. But I could give him otherwise...anything other than that...and you will understand what I mean as we go on. It was an idea formulated...first in my own mind, and then with the counsel of my husband. Such a concept needed to be discussed between us...needed to be understood before we brought someone else into the fold.

_“I think you give more than you think you do” _Aragorn had murmured...late, late into the night when we had sat up for hours discussing the subject at hand. His fingers were running through my hair...though not in a covetous manner...merely that which was appreciative. _“I do not think you understand what this will cost you.”_

Tracing the stitching of our coverlet with my forefinger...I closed my eyes and breathed him in. My wedded...my truelove...the dusky aroma that was his and his alone...the warmth of his mortal presence.

_“What it will cost me...or us?”_ I replied quietly.

He laughed.

I suppose in a different situation it would have hurt me, but it was a gentle laugh, something admonishing but not in a manner that was punishing or derisive...merely chastising.

_“Legolas”_ was his quiet reply. _“I do not doubt that I have your heart, despite this. But I do not want this to break you.” _

_“You think me so sheltered”_ I grumbled. _“I understand the risks...but I will not take this risk if you wish me not to. I would not go against your will.”_

He stirred then…_mell nín_; enough so that he could prop himself up on one elbow and lean over me...the dark of his hair falling against my jaw, the rough of his stubble against my cheek as he leaned in to kiss me.

_”I trust you”_ he murmured against my mouth.

Reaching up to trace the stern, kingly delineation of his lower lip...I blinked into his dark eyes.

_”Very few husbands would be so giving.”_

Aragorn raised a brow and his hands were once again in my hair. Long had my eyes fluttered shut before he spoke again;

_”But it is not I who is doing the giving”_ he replied. _“‘Tis you. And I accepted...long ago, that I could not bind you to me in ways that mortal men might expect. You are elf-kind...I was raised by elves. Your word, when it comes to fealty, is enough for me.”_

And so that was enough...and so it was done.

* * *

It was done...and I arranged a journey to the Drúadan Forest, under the pretense of acting as an emissary to the Drúedain. Truthfully, Aragorn had done much of the talking between the White City and the leaders of the mysterious, formidable Woses. Ghân-buri-Ghân, in particular, was fond of King Elessar, but not so fond of me at first. When members of the tribe fell ill, however, during the first winter of Aragorn’s reign, it was I who sent healers to the forest with instructions to care for those within...particularly the young, the sick, and the elderly. The Drúedain do not mix with other men...with anyone or anything at all...save for when the need is greatest or they deem it necessary. I knew also, however, that they were not the type to pry; not out of any great need for discrepancy, but because they simply did not care for the affairs of the world at all. And so I felt safe in conducting such affairs there, especially when there was a need to go, now that winter had passed, Ainion was born, and I could see to the health of their people in order to further gain their trust.

Rilien accompanied me, of course...though he was quiet, but I suppose in grave illness one is prone to be less chattery. I begged the guards stay behind, and upon Aragorn’s insistence, they did...though they were loathe to do so. My knowledge with the bow, and Rilien’s vastly-but ultimately mostly unknown-lethality was quite enough. We did not think Yusraa would care to brave the small but ultimately thick, old, and verdant stretch of forest in Anorien; and we were correct. For three days we were among the Drúedain, handing out supplies we brought along in a covered wagon, which we left behind on the second leg of our journey. We met with Ghân-buri-Ghân, who had little to say, but was ultimately grateful for the aid. We could tell he wanted us to be on our way however, so we didn’t tarry. Our road then led us to Eilenach, where we called upon the guards who tended to the second beacon of Gondor as a courtesy. This, too, left us a day of leisure which we spent talking of affairs within the White City. Little news reaches the wilds of the comings and goings that I was and am privy to on a day to day basis. Even though the Drúadan is close to Gondor, its inhabitants rarely leave, and so I was happy to give them news. I did not tell them of Yusraa, for I did not wish to concern then, and Rilien followed my lead.

The next day, we departed with the intent of returning, I suppose, to Gondor. We took the horses South...towards the formidable upthrust of the Ered Nimrais; intending to follow the range Southeast; which would lead us directly back home. It was overcast...gloomy...as things are wont to be in spring, but not in a way that was dismal. There is something distinctly _new_ in the rebirth of the seasons...in the soft...gentle showers that come with the end of winter and the ingress of new growth...of bud and flower, singing brook and damp soil. It becomes something green...something bright and spritely. Elves know it...of course...that newness...that sense of virility...of earth. A smell comes with _Echuir_; that of loam and fresh water...of a glittering, shivering recentness...of birth. To my elven eyes, the Drúadan was steeped in such newness...in its mossy tree trunks...in the rustle of unseen creatures between swaying, ferny undergrowth. Dappled, golden patches of sunlight graced us with warm, occasional reprieves from the almost ever-present drizzle; but I welcomed both. The birds were singing...hidden in the trees as their chatter filled the space between us with avian conversation.

As the King’s consort, some measure of decorum was expected of me, but I had forgone my robes for my traditional hunting garb and had naught else but spare tunics and breeches. Protocol required me to wear my circlet upon greeting and leaving any diplomatic situation, but such necessary moments had long come and gone. Only my braids were the remaining indicators of my status, and I was happy for it, as none but an elf or those who had lived long among them would know what they meant. Rilien, of course, could not go anywhere without some manner of flair. He’d left his bangles, hair beads, and bright, gaudy robes behind...but that didn’t stop him from wearing a deep maroon hunting tunic over breeches the color-but not of the make-of deerskin. Atop it all he’d thrown a pitch black surcoat with silver trimming. He’d kept his earrings in...all of them...all four hoops on each ear. Truthfully, whenever I looked at them in the past they made me flinch...but they were a part of him so I accepted them despite their oddity. Somewhat wryly, I reflected that he was dressed more for a grandiose title than I was...but it mattered very little.

It was always easy to forget that Rilien was my elder.

Truthfully, he was my elder by several thousand years, but it was hard to imagine him as such when he was waltzing about and putting on airs. He could have been...dare I say it, older than my _Adar_, but I never asked and he never saw fit to inform me. We treated him with a kind of fond exasperation much of the time...and if I were speaking of anyone else...I might be ashamed of it. But Rilien _invited_ such tolerance...such tenuous, almost kid-gloved care. I knew, the moment that I met him, that he was fragile. It took nothing more than looking into his eyes to see it...to see how crippled he was...how dark his soul had become, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself at the time. My advisor didn’t carry himself with the bearing his years might have demanded in polite society because he was not raised in polite society. And of course...not all of the Children of Ilúvatar have always been, historically, polite.

One does not speak of the Kinslayings, but neither does one forget them.

I was not alive during that time...of course, but I often have wondered if Rilien was...and if he remembered aught of them. I regret now that I never asked him of such things; I did not recognize him for the relic of history he was. Perhaps Gandalf spoke to him; I know not. I do not know how he survived the drowning of Beleriand...I do not know of his kin...of his brothers and sisters...of what they were like underneath the seething cruelty and terrible pride. It is doubtful that he knew Fëanor...or even the sons of Fëanor...I do not think that he participated in Dagor-nuin-Giliath or any of the other great battles; frankly, it would shock me if he was alive at that time. It is my belief that Rilien was perhaps born not long before the War of Wrath. It would explain having to flee Beleriand, and long have I wished I asked him more...long have I regretted the fact that I did not truly know him. If I can take comfort in anything, it is the fact that I do not think he wanted me to. We elves, we do not look back on such times with pride. It is, after all, our own defiance of the Valar that led us there...to that sunken ruin...in the first place. I do not think that Rilien felt such shame over that time; but I do not think he participated in the wars either.

We came upon a clearing that could not really be called a clearing; as one could not directly see the sky. There was, however, enough room to make camp, and enough space in which to gather brush without disturbing the foliage more than was necessary. I had taken the route not only for its relative ease of access back to Gondor, but also because there were no settlements there...no sign of sentient life for many, many miles. The trees, of course, they might whisper among themselves...but I knew that they would keep my secrets. That which is green and growing does not betray those who love the dark, dappled depths of the forest; and so I knew that we were safe. Around us were mossy, shadowed trunks stretching further and on, and to the fore was a crystal clear stream...bubbling in the semi-stillness of the woodland...singing its aqueous melody to the heavens, though none might hear it that walk the earth. The ground leading up to it sloped gently downwards...until it fell away-briefly-to separate water and land. The undergrowth was soft; meadowgrass, if my memory serves me correctly. It was newly sprouted; long...tufty and releasing a gentle, earthy smell when crushed underfoot and thick with dew. Here and there amongst the fern were _tinnieltaiss_; some just flowering with soft, fuzzy blooms and others newly green, their teardrop-shaped leaves exuding a warm, but not overpowering aroma that reminded me of Midwinter.

“_Daro_.”

Rilien looked questioningly at me when I called for halt, riding up to match his steed with mine even as I prepared to dismount in the clearing.

“_Mellon_” he began. “We can make it to the White City by dark if we make haste now.” Sliding off Arod and taking his lead, I began to rummage in the saddlebags for rope. _”Manasi?”_

“Bide a bit” I replied, indicating that he too should dismount. He did so reluctantly, and with more care than he usually would. There was, at that time...a slowness to him...but Fading will do that to any _ellon_. “I’ve something I want to talk to you about, and we are not expected back until tomorrow.”

Shrewd, fathomless eyes cut my way...though Rilien said nothing as he too took up a rope and we led our horses a bit away from the clearing. It was only a little after sunhigh, and I wanted time to acquaint myself with our surroundings before I brought up the topic at hand. I sent Rilien to fetch water for our steeds and tasked myself with divvying out the oats we had brought along. It was simple work; ‘beneath me’, some might say...but I had long ago made it clear that my title didn’t make me any less or any more than the commonfolk. Long ago my father had taught me that a crown did not make a King...but the way he treated his people was something they would remember long after a King was gone. I am not a King, but I am still a delegate to the people of Gondor; and Aragorn my sire. To think myself better than those that I serve would do me nor them any favors.

“You planned this.”

The response was purred over my shoulder, close enough that if I wasn’t accustomed to Rilien’s flagrant disregard for personal space, I might have done him some grave harm. As it was, I merely shrugged him off, though not as much as I normally would have. I needed him to be close...you see...and in order to do that I had to lower the parameters of my own individual boundaries...if only a little bit.

_”A”_ I replied idly, turning from Arod and fixing my advisor with a raised brow. “But you musn’t fuss at me about it, or you won’t find out what I’m about.” Pausing, I cocked my head. “Tell me, have you ever climbed a tree?”

Rilien huffed and his earrings jangled as _he_ jangled about for a moment with his usual flair.

“If you tell me that we’ve stopped here only to climb a tree I’m going to put on airs” he complained.

“I wasn’t aware that you were ever not putting on airs” I replied lightly. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t have the time to climb trees” was the long-suffering response. “Tragic, I know. But you see I am in the employ of a consort who lives in a mountain castle and they are hard to come by-”

_“-Tolo!”_ I interrupted, bounding to the nearest oak and swinging up into the branches. When Rilien didn’t follow, I descended somewhat and peeked through the branches to find him still squarely on the ground, his expression unreadable. “Oh, you are slow _mellon_” I said dryly. “Hurry or you shall lose your charge.” Jerking my chin at his surcoat, I continued. “Leave that, far be it from me to let you hang yourself by accident.”

I didn’t wait to see if he did as I had bid.

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if he would follow at all. Rilien wasn’t of the woods, nor was he a free-spirited elf of Rivendell or a naturistic, mystical _ellon_ of Lothlorien. I sincerely doubted he had ever climbed a tree in his life. It was a little bit sad...if I forced myself to consider it on a purely elvish scale. I’d lived most of my life among them, and so I was wont to take them for granted. As it was, it had been long since I myself had felt the sincere joy of the wind in my face...the air rushing past my ears as I leapt from branch to branch...canopy to canopy. Elves do not forget the exhilaration that comes from running in the wild; the unfettered pleasure of it sings in our bones and thrums through our veins. So it was that I decided even if my companion didn’t fall for my little ploy I would still enjoy the glory of the forest all the same. Up, down, over and through...from limb to precarious perch, teetering bough and sturdy fork. Almost immediately, I determined to do so more often, simply for the fact that I had _missed_ it.

It was pure reflex that kept me from bowling Rilien out of the tree in front of me.

Pure reflex...and perhaps a little bit of friendly aid. I’d already jumped, you see, and it was only my advisor’s miraculously swift reaction time that kept us from landing on the ground. As it was, the dark-haired elf merely swung me upwards so I could grasp at a limb above him, swinging once, twice, three times, before I was able to vault myself onto the sturdy wood underfoot. Caught off-guard, reeling from the swiftness of the reversion and slightly out of breath, I merely peered down at him even as he looked up...perched only on the balls of his feet in a crouching position. Catching my eye, he cocked his head in a manner that was purely predatory, and something in me thrilled to it-just for a moment, for I knew what was to come-before I pushed it down and forced myself to focus. Still...I could see the brilliant iridescence of his stroma...the almost-faux thickness of his onyx lashes...the pale...opaline strangeness of his skin.

Rilien was not an orc.

To declare him otherwise would surely be a grave dishonesty. There was a sharpness to his features that elves of my age no longer possess; a ferality to his nature that only comes from one born in an earlier age...when the light of the Valar was something not so much diminished as it was hidden. Rilien was far less civilized than me but his blood was older...stronger, if I must take it that far. I had, of course, not considered his aesthetic until the decision to do what I did came to me...but with the moment so close, and the knowledge of what I was offering in the face of what I would receive, I will not deny that I was slightly overcome. Do not mistake me; Aragorn was equally beautiful, but my love for him came not only from a semblance of the exterior...but of the interior. What I would offer to Rilien would be-on my part-fully carnal; and I was not remiss in admitting that I would not be sorry to have it.

“Who is slow now?”

He didn’t know it.

I say this fondly, because to me it indicated how innocent Rilien’s feelings towards me were; how unfettered and how much they were without obligation or expectation. Rilien did not-for one second-dare to assume that I might act upon his desires, and I think I loved him for it...as a friend can only love a friend...for such honest adoration...such veritable love. As it was...he’d already gotten a jump on me; was already up and moving among the branches, a splash of red in an explosion of verdant, seething green. Riotous laughter echoed back to me as he disappeared and it was with a small smile that I followed it, made a game of it as we chased one another in kinship...above the ground and below the vast expanse of the sky. He closed me out twice I think; came ‘round and nearly knocked me out of the branches-in sport, of course-and I returned the favor thrice over. By the time we made it back to the campsite it was late afternoon and we were both well winded and exhilarated with the thrill of it. Jumping down from the beech that I’d used to scramble up into the branches, I watched as my advisor followed suit and then promptly flopped onto his back atop the meadowgrass, eyes to the heavens as I retrieved a blanket from the bedroll and spread it out as well as I was able.

_”Penim vast”_ was the idle remark as I went about my task.

Pausing, I took a moment to process what he was saying before I replied.

“No” I agreed. “But we won’t need it.”

Rilien appeared to take some time to consider what I was saying before he propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at the stream, his eyes narrowed sleepily.

“Was that your grand plan?” he remarked. “To get me some exercise?” He face took on a wounded affectation. “My friend, if you think I’m getting fat, you need only tell me.”

Against my better judgement-and my will-I laughed. Sitting down atop the blanket cross legged, I shook my head and began to undo my braids.

“You’ve caught me” I jested. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Going along with it, my companion put a hand over his heart and collapsed back onto the ground.

_”Ai!”_ he exclaimed. “I knew it! I knew those tarts weren’t any good for my figure, but I couldn’t control myself.”

For a moment we eyed each other with perfectly straight faces. The caricature of the setting was lost, however, when Rilien snorted not once but twice, and then broke into riotous peals of laughter. My braids undone and the levity of the moment retained, I departed to wash my face in the stream; returning only when I felt my head was clear enough to continue. By that time, Rilien had found it within himself to divest himself of his footwear and was wriggling his toes in the meadowgrass with a lackadaisical, distracted expression. With his attention elsewhere...I allowed myself the privilege of observation...and with that observation came the alarming conclusion that perhaps I’d not done well in encouraging him to climb. Rilien had always been pale; but now he was nearly sallow. A mortal would have missed it, but there was no mistaking the faint discoloration to his skin...the dullness in his hair...when had that happened? Wracking my thoughts, guilt swallowed me as I realized that perhaps my friend had been further gone than I’d thought. And we’d spoken of it...though he did not like to speak of it...especially to me. For elves, even the act of dying is something personal. When I thought Aragorn had fallen, it came for me so swiftly I was helpless against it. I do not know what staved Rilien off for so long...only perhaps it was his sense of duty...his loyalty.

But what was the cost of loyalty...in the end?

I’d left my wedding band in my pack; not because I had dismissed it, but because I didn’t think it something necessary to involve in what I would be doing. Slipping off my own boots, I set them to the side and determined to stall less and perhaps act more expediently. I didn’t want to rush into things...however, because I knew it I did...Rilien would reject me. It didn’t matter if Aragorn had approved or that I had thought of it...my Advisor would see it as something akin to pity if I didn’t play my hand rightly. And this was not a game...though I was trying my very hardest to keep the atmosphere amicable and cheerful. There would-quite soon-come a moment when I would have to drop all pretense of jest and move forward with a sincerity that communicated my desire to act in a manner that was believable. There was a tenuous balance to what I was doing...and I was not ignorant of it.

I’d considered _miruvórë_.

Not for the sake of addlement, but for the sake of relaxation. Elf mead is potent, however, even to our kind, and I didn’t want to make a drunkard’s affair of it no matter how much both Rilien and I were prone to overindulgence on the rare occasion. Such is the way of elves, after all; and in making merry perhaps-I reasoned-I could make something _merrier_, but it was not a good idea in the end. Involving spirits felt deceptive...inveigling, something that both of us could chalk up to liquor and nothing else; which was not the message I was trying to convey. Nay, I wanted both of us sober and clear-headed for what was to come, and so I’d left the cordial of the elves-a gift from my father, no less-in my quarters.

“They said if you looked too long at _Ungweliantë_ she would morph into the Maiar she once was.”

I blinked and redirected my focus at Rilien, who had caught me looking and was consequently looking back. I made as if to brush my hair back in a self-conscious gesture, but realised that it wouldn’t do the circumstances in which I found myself a bit of good. Instead, I swallowed and made my way back to the blanket, crouching at the very edge but keeping my focus fixed on the individual before me.

“We have no historical proof that she was one of the Maiar at all” I replied quietly.

_”Thand”_ was the muttered return. “But it does good to mention that looking at darkness will not bring forth a hidden light...merely an illusion of it.”

It was the opening I was seeking.

Rilien was astride the length of the stream at my back...his physicality directed forward, towards the shadow of the woodlands. He’d sat up but a bit more; on his hands instead of his elbows and so I allowed myself to inch forward slowly, to close the gap between us on the blanket until I was above him somewhat, ‘till he had to tilt his head in order to look at me. He was still smiling...of course he was...but there was conflict in his eyes now...something that spoke to me...like the softest of whispers...even if he said nothing aloud.

“Maybe I want to look” I murmured.

A grin...something swiftly reactional, clearly smug; but something in his expression darkened, became hard and guarded and full of pain. I felt almost foolish for not seeing it before. Still, when he spoke, his tone was light, teasing, and flirtatious.

“Oh?” was the purred response. “Have you come to your senses then?” Rilien sat up again, grasped my chin, and I knew he meant to unsettle me. He was taller than me-though by no more than a few inches-and by the time he rose to his knees it was I who was forced to look upwards in order to retain eye contact. I did so, not because I perceived him as a threat in need of vigilance, but because I wanted to be as open and honest as possible.

“Not in the ways you might expect” I replied, softly. “I want to give...as you have given me, but I can only do so if you let me…_mellon_.”

It was as if I’d struck him.

If I am to be completely honest, when my dark-haired companion reared back from me, I half expected him to leave me there; to flee in a whirlwind of grief, confusion, and resentment. It was the one thing that had kept me from approaching him with it for so long; I knew that if he did not accept, then he would run, and I would lose him not to death...not at first, at least...but by my own hand. So I did not pursue him when he fled from me...though not far. Something stopped him at the tree line...had him poised to dart into the shadows...my intrepid advisor...and yet he hesitated. Everything about his bearing was defensive; he was wild in that moment, unhinged if I dare to take it that far. Crouched near the trunk of a tree, half-running and half in terrible indecision, he was the fey thing that always lingered on the fringes of his frivolous caricature. Those eyes flashed with a kind of terrible agony...with fear and with longing. For a moment, I regretted my decision, because I was unsure if this would damage him far more than anything else I had offered him. Pale fingers bit into the gnarl of the trunk, heedless of splinters driving into milky epidermis...as if he could somehow root himself to the ground like the beech above him had so done.

You must think me very cruel.

It was cruel...and on no small scale. Rilien loved me, he loved me enough that his soul was sick to death with it. And in a monsterous twist of fate, I was incapable of loving him back...not fully, not in a way that would make him well. He had loved me enough to sacrifice possibly regaining his only son; had instead been forced to watch me grow heavy with a child not his own while he wasted away behind bars. And now he had the privilege of seeing the _ellon_ he loved hold that child...hold him close whilst showered with affection from a man who was not him. In my defense, I did not foresee Rilien; of course I wouldn’t have...I am not a seer, and I have no special abilities to my name save for the ability to bear children. And I had always known Aragorn would be a large part of my life; though the specifics, of course, escaped me at the time. But if this small thing...in my very limited mentality’s opinion, was enough...then I was willing to give it. For I was too selfish, despite it all, to lose Rilien. And perhaps that is the cruelest facet of this of all; but we will get into that more later.

“This is the cruelest jest you have played on me yet.”

Barely above a whisper...his voice. If I’d not had elven ears, I’d not have heard him. As it was, his lips barely moved as he stood there, torn apart by indecision; by fear and need all at once. My heart broke a little at his words...because he thought that I toyed with him when I would never be so unkind. Or perhaps he _hoped_ that I toyed with him. Rising, I made a steady path towards him...away from the blanket and back...to his shelter beneath the trees. Thrice, I was forced to pause, because thrice he made as if to bolt only to stop himself at the very last minute. It was his nature too...I suppose...our nature when faced with a terrible pain...with something soul-scarring and terrifying.

“I do not jest” I replied gently. “I would not be so cruel to you, _mellon_.”

Rilien closed his eyes.

Such a graceful gesture...so telling of where he would go with his decision. I knew then that I had him, for it was surrender and horrid self-deprecation at once. I waited while he warred with himself, despite knowing what he had chosen...even if he did not know it himself. When my advisor gave me the privilege of his eyes again...they were hard.

“But you are cruel, _hîr vuin_” he countered, his voice thick even as he stepped away from the tree and moved to meet me. We met just shy of the thick ingress of the forest; consort and consultant...prince and pariah. He did not touch me...but he was so close it hardly mattered; I could feel his body heat as he stood before me...as he looked upon me with an expression that was both grief and gratuity. _”Ai,_ and I have never meant it when I said it before, but you are.”

“I do not mean to be” I whispered, feeling the pain of what he said to me well up in my chest.

A smile...but it was no salacious curve of his lips this time...instead, it was tender...soft...and terribly sad.

“I know” Rilien murmured, lifting his hand until he could cup my cheek…’til his fingers skittered across my jawline...like the wings of the dusk-loving moths in Mirkwood. “And that is what makes it so.”

I thought he meant to kiss me. I tilted my chin to receive his mouth because he had bent his head as if he was going to. Instead, he bent his neck until we were cheek to cheek; lower until I could feel his nose against the thrum of my pulse. His hand he used to grasp my own...to slide dexterous digits up my wrist until he could thread our fingers together...and then he was still. Somehow, the gesture was more intimate than kissing. And I knew that this would not be a hasty, fumbling affair; or I had known it deep down perhaps...but had failed to acknowledge it. That didn’t make the nearness of him anything less warm...anything less than the affection that lingered on my skin with every touch...with the rise and fall of his chest.

“Aragorn knows.”

A statement, not a question, and I nodded, finding myself robbed of words. He had lifted his head so he could press his visage against the fall of my hair. His free hand had threaded through it, and though he had brushed it countless times before...it was different...it made me tremble.

“...And did he tell you to do this?”

I shook my head before I realized that that was not enough, that it was not profound enough, or truthful enough, of an answer. Gently pulling-but not relinquishing-the hand that clutched mine, I brought it to me...between us and atop my chest.

_”Guren bêd enni”_. His breath hitched, of course it would, it was Quenya...and never before had I ventured to speak it with him. Swallowing against the hot tears that threatened to burn my eyes, I continued. “I want you to live.”

His hand tightened in my hair, almost to the point where it was painful, but I said nothing.

“That is not enough,” he said, and there was an edge of roughness to his voice.

_“Nalyë valkane wilwarindon”_ I muttered. _“Haryalyë hónya._”

“Legolas” Rilien said tightly. “I have never had your heart.”

“You do, and you have” I insisted. “As a friend...as my most trusted companion other than Aragorn. And today...tonight...you have me...all of me...for I wish you to be well...and I want this.”

At this he drew away...put perhaps an arms’ length of space between us before looking into my eyes as if he would find the truth there. I kept my expression open, for I wanted him to know...I wanted him to see that I did not lie.

“...And if this does not make me well?” he murmured.

Now it was my turn to go to him...to cup his cheek, to let my fingers play, briefly, in the gaudy hoops dangling from his ears.

_”San merin sa haryalyë alassë nó vanyalyë ambarello”_ I said weakly. _“Ore nin karitas antai lynna.”_

If Rilien’s eyes were moist, neither of us commented on it. Nor did I say anything when he touched my cheeks again, this time with both hands. My dark-haired companion cradled my face as he made a thorough but slow study of my visage. Such is the nature of elves...we take our time...I suppose...with one another. I cannot speak for the rest of my kind...as I have had no other experiences, but this...this careful observation...this was of our ilk...and ours alone. Far heavier was his gaze than his touch; a kind of careful reverence that I would never have thought he possessed had I not known of his love for me beforehand. He kissed me then...the barest of kisses. More a brushing of the lips than anything, but the nature of it sang to me...for it was more tender than any deep, heady thing could be. His mouth was soft...softer than any other I had kissed, without a beard, of course. Barely had I had the time to respond when he pulled away...pressed our foreheads together and closed his eyes.

“_Násië_” he murmured.

As he spoke, his hand bunched in the fabric at the small of my back and I reciprocated hesitantly. Around us...the forest seemed still. It was as if it waited with baited breath for what was to come. I look at the line before and laugh a little bit, for so often it has been used...but in its frequency I suppose there must come a small ring of truth. Perhaps nature does watch...mayhap it does observe the comings and goings of us mere mortals...and immortals. We kissed again and it was fuller, though no less chaste. Again, I marveled at the sweetness of his lips, at the tender way with which he caught my mouth and made a melody of our exchange. If you knew Rilien...superficially, you wouldn't think that he could make a kiss a promise...a gesture an oath. All was forsworn in his actions...his loyalty, his love, even a little bit of his self-loathing for he touched me as if he did not deserve to. Always had I been touched with love...but with equality...with a sense of something shared. Never had I been touched as something ethereal, and perhaps that is the wonder of immortal love...that everlasting, star strung tenaciousness wrapped in a package as soft as gossamer. My free hand rose to touch his silken hair...fingers running the onyx length of a lock that fell over Rilien’s shoulder and he shuddered...just a little. His smile was a curve against my lips...but not one of smugness, yet again.

Another kiss...and another...some slow...some fleeting, some a furor of exchange...a multitude of kisses that traced the edges of my mouth only to land full and venerational across vermillion. I realized in the thick of it that he was testing my ability to reciprocate; and I nearly wanted to pinch him because if we’d come this far only to have him play games with me then I would truly be insulted. Indeed, I’d taken a breath to tell him to cease when he caught my lips in a full, open kiss; one that scorched the cavern of my mouth and made my knees nearly turn to water. I made a sound, I do not know what it was, though I’m sure it was unintelligible, and the flush that dusted my cheeks was a thing wrought in poignant zest. Again, he smiled, and this time there _was_ a bit of vainglory behind it but I let it be...for I’d no wish to wrankle him. We’d begun a slow walk backwards, I realized...back towards the blanket and I let myself go with it for I had no wish to dissuade him from his purpose. He’d slowed by the time we reached the edge of the fabric, however. Ceased our movement so he could kiss me long and consideringly and with great focus.

A consummate lover.

Rilien...that is. He was consummate in ways that I was unaccustomed to, and I feared that it would be my undoing. It was apparent in the way that he seemed to hearken to every stutter of breath that left my throat; in the way he seemed to swallow it down and hold it close. Hours...hours it appeared that we stood there as he acquainted himself with my mouth. I did likewise...memorized the taste of him; the light, almost unearthly essence of that which was solely his and his alone. It brought to mind a hint of apple mint...perhaps even the slightest bit of pennyrile. Subtle, of course, overridden by the spirited efflux that each individual possesses. It was moresoe evident on his tongue; which he slipped into my mouth when he’d had enough of his ironclad chasteness. Weightless...lustrous, heady and florid and liquid. I greeted his ingress with my own welcome; let him roam before I tangled us together...flicking, searching, delving deep before retreating. Yet still he grasped me lightly, as if he feared that should he crush me to him...I would bruise like ripe fruit.

I wished he would.

I did...because that slow entangling had surely left me more unravelled that I had ever thought it would. I _burned_ in ways anew; in a nature that was purely of _our_ nature. If I am to be entirely honest, it intimidated me...because it told me this meant more to me than I had ever wanted it to. But I was spellbound...unable to break the enchantment of the moment as the minutes drifted from my ability to discern.

_”Melda...”_

Warm...his breath was warm over my lips as he called to me. Rilien’s hands had come up to cup my elbows even as I grasped his shirtfront in a gesture not-unlike a maiden smitten by love’s first...undoing kiss. And it was not...it was different...but it was still frighteningly intimate. So when I forced myself to look at him it was with half-lidded eyes...with flushed cheeks and shivering limbs. It was with the knowledge that perhaps I had bartered more than I bargained for…and what a bargain. Rilien’s arousal was clear...if not in his gestures...in his eyes. His pupils had nearly eclipsed his irises, and his mouth was beautifully red and plush from kissing. Never had I seen him so bedraggled, so undone...and yet never had he looked more otherworldly...more wild and yet somehow still so controlled. Swallowing, I determined to regain myself.

_”Ruvumen”_ I whispered.

A smile again, this one teasing but at the same time knowing in a way that was also discomfiting.

_”Voronwië”_ he crooned against my mouth. “You shall have me...but you shall have me when I choose, and not because you wish to make this a fleeting, shivering, mindless thing.”

And so I was lost.

We, _we_ were lost.

Without words he bid me give him one of my hands, and I shivered again as he kissed each fingertip...as he bent my wrist so he could press his mouth against the inside of my palm...marching downwards with ever-distinct but ever-errant issuances of breath until he could deliver the same treatment to my wrist. Every so often he would abandon his task so he could taste my lips once more, so he could lick into my mouth until he’d drawn a moan from me before returning to the locale of his focus. So slow...so thoughtful and with such dedicated care. You mistake me if you think me wayward in my affections...for I was not. Expanding...perhaps, but never disloyal. I knew my place as he knew his; as he pushed the sleeves to my tunic upwards and wrote love on my forearm...ever was he subservient and yet somehow all-encompassing. With both my hands...my fingers...my wrists, he did this. His eyelids were half-hooded, sleepy things...almost as if in his ministrations he was caught in the thrall of it all.

Fickle are elves.

And yet in our fickleness we find ourselves entrapped by each new wonder presented to us. So when we lay down on the blanket hours had passed and yet I had not noticed. Dusk had fallen and the woods were mahogany, purpled with shadow and the stream a bubbling, glassy onyx mirror...ever-frothing, ever-humming its ageless tune. Rilien looked at me long then, and I at him. I watched how the encroaching darkness played with the pale alabaster of his skin; made the mischievous plunge of his brows severe...contemplative jackknives. He traced my lips with fore and middle finger while his own parted like the unfurling of a rose; palest cerise...the pink of his tongue darker. I was struck-moreso than ever before-by his years. For in his silence he was an ancient, thoughtful thing. Curled together on our sides, arms and legs a jumble and somehow I felt small...felt almost childish before him. I almost spoke then, almost broke the sanctity of that silence. But as if he sensed my uncertainty, Rilien took my mouth again. This time there was a purpose to his actions, and though he was no less considerate, I felt his fingers catch the lacings to my tunic and it almost gave me cause to relax.

It shouldn't have.

It shouldn't, because he rid me of my clothes as if he were taking apart a relic piece by piece. When my lacings were open he kissed the skin there; ran his tongue over the quivering hollow at my throat only to suck and the gesture sent a throbbing ache through me. It had my toes curling even as I sank my fingers blindly into the black river of his hair...even as I threw my leg over his hip in an attempt to rut into him only to have him stop me with an inpatient, dismissive sound. He reverted his focus to my neck...to the flutter of my pulse; laid his mouth across it, open and breathing while I gasped and threw my head back-eyes wide-to stare sightlessly at the waxing moon. He'd found the hem of my tunic; had pushed it up until he was grasping the bare skin of my sides and each touch was a glowing, stroking, gradual thing. I imagined that wherever his fingers made contact it was much like the glow of a lightning bug; a temperate, sloe and luminescent pleasure that radiated outwards. Still, his touch was covetous... grasping and then tremulous when he found my nipples. Dextrous digits followed the circumventive pink around them, rubbed and then plucked and I think that I jerked, that my mouth fell open even as my breath caught in a small, strangled singultus of sound.

Rilien lost some of his glacial patience then; seemed to grow slightly tired of such a leisurely pace for he divested me of my tunic so he could lay his mouth where his fingers had been...so he could lave and then suck. A flick of the tongue, wet and hedonistic and I couldn't stop the thin, pleading noise that escaped me at that point. I held him there and he didn't seem to mind it, didn't appear to care and instead hummed his approval, a low exhalation in the back of his throat. He made a feast of it...if I must be so crass, 'till I mindlessly tugged at the rich fabric of his tunic, nearly ripping it before he drew back somewhat so he could discard it elsewhere. Then, _then_ I was privy to him as I'd never been...to the lean expanse of his torso, to the flat and hard planes of his abdomen and my hands descended upon him in a frenzied, almost feral manner.Rilien allowed this for a time, let me explore him as he had explored me...though I had far less grace and patience than he’d led us along with. All the while his hands were in my hair...stroking through it, nails running along the back of my scalp as his physicality flushed in response.

When he’d had enough he pushed me on to my back. I went willingly for I was nearly spent...nearly delirious with need but once again he took his time. Rilien’s fingers travelled hungrily down my sides even as he moved over me...a dark...sinuous shape under the faint glow of the dying sun. His hair curtained us...fell over me hither and thither as he mouthed his way down my sternum and belly only to lick somewhat contemplatively at the dip of my navel. His fingers hooked at the edges of my breeches and I lifted my hips frantically, ignoring the dark chuckle I received in response. It was an inky, velvet exclamation; dark at the edges but strained with the force of his desire. When my legs were nudged open so he could mouth at the prominence of my arousal through my lacings I had to dig my nails into his shoulders and bite my lip until I tasted copper to keep from humiliating myself. Here, at least, he was decent enough to have mercy on me; had enough kindness in him to make quick work of my trousers and his own so he could settle into the cradle of my hips.

I had a little victory there, because he nearly lost all measure of pace. Indeed, when I wrapped my thighs around his sides he went rigid with need as his back became a hungry curvature. The hard-soft velvet of male arousal had him rising to his knees so he could bend over me...so he could sink his fingers into my hair even as we curled together...a loud groan passing his lips as the length of him slid along the length of me in a crude mimicry of the act; jerking, impatient and taut as a strung bow. I sought his lips and that seemed to calm him. Panting into my mouth, Rilien’s physicality loosened...became languid and lazy once more and I nearly cursed the Valar right there and then. Because I’d have welcomed it at that point, even if it would have hurt...both initially and later...when we were both spent. I had no mind to let Rilien take me apart...but he seemed Udûn-bent to do so. And again...he made a study of my nakedness...smoothed his hands down my legs as his lips found the little valley between my aching need and the inside of my thighs. Long did he tarry there, lingering over the hidden erogenous points no one-save for Aragorn-had known that I possessed before...and it had taken him many months to find them. My advisor seemed to know me instinctively...seemed to know each and every sheltered focale that would make me moan and arch and shudder.

It was only fair, then, that I gave as good as I was given.

Specifically, I urged him upwards until he knelt...sitting on his heels...so that I could taste him. I took very little time to observe...as I didn’t feel it necessary, and my need was so great that it hardly mattered. Rilien stiffened when he realized what I was doing, and his entire body froze when I settled before him and took him into my mouth. Hard...pulsing and hot and those lithe hips jerked even as his lips gave way to a strangled, almost incredulous sound...and I understood. I understood because to him this was servitude...and it was normally he who would have done the serving. Sucking distractedly at the tip, I let myself accommodate...opened my throat to him before moving down over the girth of his length. Rilien hunched over me then...fingers tugging at my hair slightly harder as he strove not to thrust into my mouth...as the whole of his desire twitched before he seemed to force himself to still. I hummed and the noise he made was desperate, half-curse and half-exultation. From my vantage point I could see that he could barely keep his eyes open, that they were half-mast and moist and that the flush on his cheeks was like the deep spill of berry wine...his mouth parted and wanting...chest heaving as he clutched at me desperately.

And then I was-once again-flat on my back.

Specifically, Rilien pulled me away from him and practically threw me to the blankets, kissing me sloppily even as his fingers desperately rummaged in the pockets of my breeches. I was thankful, at least, that I had thought this far ahead. So when he retrieved the small, corked bottle of oil from a hidden recess I breathed an inward sigh of relief. Because finally…_finally_...

Or not.

_Not_, because he slowed once he’d coated his fore and middle finger with oil. Took his time stroking me, once-twice, before letting his fingers dance down to the soft cleft below. Something inside me shivered apart then...splintered into itself and I could do naught but open my mouth...exhale in a rush of breath as I was breached...as he nudged my thighs apart and began to prepare me with an agonizingly slow focus. Intrusion...and it was a hot, wavering advance as he kissed my lips, my throat and my eyelids. Rilien muttered nonsensical endearments under his breath as he stretched me, as I was opened to his affections...like a flower unfolding in the warmth of the sun. It was all I could do not to reciprocate...to prevent myself from writhing into his touch like a wanton...mindless thing. Two fingers and he pressed against that hidden place...that burning station of ecstasy and the pleading sound that fell from my mouth was a statement of desperate need.

“I said I would have you” was the barely-coherent murmur against the shell of my ear. Three fingers that delved, stretched, curled and rubbed and I cried out, half-sobbing as a tongue flicked against the sensitive tip of my auditory faculties. “And now I shall.”

_”Please”_ I gasped, my hips rolling desperately. “_Ai lá_ Rilien!”

_”Tá”_ was the hoarse sentiment as the older _ellon_ withdrew from me.

He fought to be gentle about it, and by then I knew it meant something to him...such care...so I said nothing. Instead, when the head of his need pressed against me I only tilted my hips to better accommodate him, breathed through it...though it was hardly necessary. Thick...hot and _inwards_ and Rilien had bowed his head ‘till it rested against the hollow of my throat. One hand was seated firmly beneath my buttocks-palm up-to steady us...to give anchor to action while the other was threaded through my fingers, the arm to which they were attached above my head and pressing into the blanket ‘till I could smell the soft crush of meadowgrass beneath. All the while he looked at me...watched my eyelashes flutter as he seated himself within me...heavy and generous. I found I could not look away...couldn’t do anything as all of him was made known to me...as he bared himself to me, so did I in return. Deeply rooted...flush with arousal and the span of timespace in which he was still...in which he did not move but simply observed...I knew.

I knew I loved him.

How could I not…? For he was careful with me, always, not just in this. For all his fantastical grandstanding, for all his whimsical nature he had sworn himself to me. Tears came to my eyes when I realized this and these too he took from me in soft...gentle kisses as they leaked from the corners...as he rose above me then and thrust but once. Slow...so very slow...long and deep and smooth and I groaned softly, buried my face in his shoulder until he relinquished my hand so he could stroke my hair. I let my fingers rest at the base of his spine...let myself feel the musculature there bunch and flex as he drove into me again...and then again. A gentle tempo...easy...languid and yet somehow more tangible than any hard, fast and driven thing could have been. He took my mouth in time with it, drove his tongue in a rhythm equal to his thrusts and the golden...helpless sensations locked in my belly unfurled and warmed me everywhere. I heard the punctuated, wanton sounds falling from my lips only distantly...so inveigled was I by his nearness, his warmth.

And so in the throes of dusk he took me...he took me and...in some ways, I took him. Like a dance; like the softest of carnal patterns; arched backs and broken sighs, murmured nothings and the sweet slide of flesh against flesh. Not once did he seek his pleasure before mine...not once did he drive hard for completion, and I was full...full and far thrown and dashed against the rocks of his subjugation, rent to pieces on the shores of euphoria. Slick with sweat...curled into one another...the heft of him pressing into that sweet...hidden locus of ecstasy and I feared I would not last. It was a thrumming in my fingertips...a heartbeat under my tongue until he gathered me to him and drove deep until I cried out...until the music of our passion filled the forest around us. We were a coil of limbs by then; his visage pressed against my shoulder and I could feel the wet from his eyes against my skin as he trembled with it...as his chest heaved and his hands clutched me desperately. I clenched hard, involuntarily, and Rilien made a noise that sounded half like a sob and half like a wild laugh. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth as I swallowed convulsively, hips bucking as orgasm threatened to overcome me utterly. I could feel him swell...feel the press of him inside me...greater than before and I knew he was not far off either.

_”Evëa-!”_

Choked against my ear and I hearkened to it...cupped Rilien’s cheek and nodded even as he still tried to hold off...his eyes seeking mine.

_“Hîr vuin”_ Rilien gasped, and I tried to tell him _no_, that I did not wish for such titles here, but he was too far gone to notice. _”Hîr vuin, ah im, ú-'erin veleth lîn?”_

“Do not” I whimpered. “Do not make me say such a thing I-_ah!_”

Hard, he drove hard then and my back arched off the ground as completion gutted me...as it ripped through me and left me in a sea of shivering, concupiscent white.

_”Meleth...”_.

I said it...and I do not doubt he heard me. In the throes of my completion I felt him shiver and still; felt him reach his peak as the words left my lips...thoughtless and yet somehow honest. The crush of his hips was nearly painful as he emptied himself in me...as he curled over me and then collapsed. I let him lay there...let him come down from it even as the crickets began to sing around us. Night had truly fallen by then...but the moon was full and his body was aglow in its silver light. So too was mine; I could feel the way my hair reflected it...and even if I could not see it...he could see it...and I knew he thought me ethereal, though I wished he wouldn’t. Eventually, he withdrew and lay to the side...pulling me with him as he did so, until we were facing one another. Still slightly breathless, I closed my eyes as he drew me to him close...belly to belly, with my head tucked under his chin.

_”Goheno-nin”_ I murmured.

Rilien laughed then and I looked at him...slightly surprised. Seeming to sense my confusion, he lowered his head to kiss my mouth. Even as he did so, I could see that his color was much improved...that he looked better than he had in weeks. A large portion of me felt relief...but a small...distant iota of my psyche wondered at the cost.

“You have given me a gift” he whispered. “Even if you have bound me to you, it is still a gift...and so you should not, and I will not allow you to apologize.”

“Only tonight” I replied, shifting slightly...feeling a fraud as the words left my mouth.

“I know” was the slightly dry return. “And believe me, I now have a veritable _trove_ of terrible jokes I can never use.”

“Thank the Valar” I muttered into his armpit, though I was smiling.

_”Baw,_ Legolas” Rilien murmured into my ear, and the movement of his torso was a sensuous thing against mine. “...Thank _you_.”

* * *

Now you know.

Now you know the great price that was paid for the life of my advisor. ‘Twould be a lie...I suppose, to say that I did not love him. Not in the same way that I loved Aragorn, of course, but not the same as one would love a friend either. And if you are discerning...if you have paid attention, then you will know that the parentage of Vanya and Miriel is a thing of speculation as well. For I did naught to prevent it, though Aragorn and I did make haste to rechristen the sanctity of our marriage bed soon after. But in the weeks after our encounter I found myself ill and knew the cause much more intimately now that I’d experienced it before. Our daughters...they were wilder...more unfettered than their siblings and perhaps twice as elvish as their brothers and sisters. I think Rilien knew;. he held them long when they were born, and I allowed it...for what else could I do? My jester-esque, reckless advisor gazed at the tiny bundles I brought to him...three days after I'd given birth. He looked...he looked and he looked and then he looked at me with those iridescent eyes, and the _joy_-! For I knew and he knew. And we knew he would love them as he could; as he properly could in his position. So when Rilien's dark hair fell to cover his face as he leaned forward and cried over his newborn daughters, I held his hand...for that is all I, too, could properly do.

And then Rilien died.

Only four days later...he died. In that moment, that suspended moment when he drew that cursed blade across his throat; I cried out to him...not as a friend...but as a lover. Some part of me withered with his passing...something given, something shared…something secret. Later, I heard that they had cried...the twins; that they were inconsolable for hours. Such is the way of elves...we know. And Aragorn loved them all the same. He was, dare I say it, perhaps more fiercely protective of them than the rest of our children...and I loved him desperately for it. When Rilien died, however...I fell ill. Not the ill when one is with child...but a kind of listless...yet unprogressive soul sickness...a heavy spiritual pall. Only when my love begged me to did I write to Gandalf. He came alone...without our son...to tend to me, and it was then that I learned that my fëa had been fractured. Specifically...a part of it had been bound to Rilien...before his death...and with his passing, it now had nothing to cling to...and so it was Fading...even if the rest of my fëa was not.

_“I do not know, and I do not want to know what you and Rilien did to so damage your spirit”_ Gandalf had said gruffly. _I only hope that you understand the great risk you undertook...tying yourself to him...and he to you. It will take time to heal this part of yourself...if you can at all.”_

I could.

I could...but it would take me many, many years. Many years of grief...of sorrow...of laughter and love and joy. I look at them...at Vanya and Miriel...and he is there. In their eyes...in the flicker of mischief in iridescent irises. And so I did not have to mend my fëa to make it whole...I need only look to our daughters to know where my heart lies. I see them, and I see Aragorn, my truelove; for ever is he steadfast...and ever is he patient. And sometimes... sometimes when the nights are very quiet I see it...a silhouette against the White Tree...that of a crow. It sits amongst the branches...like a silent shadow... like the memory of a kiss under the stars. I see it and I know...and he knows...

Rilien...I have never been your Lord.

Ever have you been yours...and perhaps a little bit of mine...but you are your own.

And forever will you have my love.

_Legolas_.

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N**: Right. So there may be some errors here due to not having an official beta (one that will willingly take credit) and spending nearly a week writing this. (There are there are cliff jumping worthy errors) Again, this isn't meant to be solid canon, though it does tie in to canon for the sake of immersion. I feel like I made this as believable as I possibly could have. I've been wanting to go back to As You Are, I am, for a while, not necessarily on this premise, but just to revisit the fandom. You can find Rilien here: https://www.deviantart.com/myriadwhitedarkness/art/Rilien-812239267 Thank you for reading, and, of course, your thoughts are appreciated.
> 
> **Translations**
> 
> Q=Quenya; the rest is Sindarin.
> 
> -_mellon-nin_-my friend  
-_Ai, Leg’las...Man ceril? I dhôl gîn lost, leithio nin._-oh legolas, what are you doing?...let me go  
-_mell nín_-my beloved  
-_Echuir_-spring  
-_tinnieltaiss_-This is, roughly, the word for 'spice bush'; in the plural form. there is no actual translation for this in Sindarin, so I had to smash the word 'spice'-in Sindarin 'spice' is more 'spark'; which is 'tinniel'; and 'bush' together and then pluralize it in a manner that seemed the most appropriate. I was thinking of Lindera benzoin, when I wrote it; or the Northern Spicebush, which has a very special place in my heart.  
-_Daro_-stop/halt  
-_Manasi?_-Q, roughly, "what is this?"  
-_A_-"Yes." Roughly. There are, no actual solid 'yes's in the elven language.  
-_Tolo!_-"come!"  
-_Penim vas_-Q, "we have no bread"  
-_Ai_-an exclamation, like "oh!"  
-_Thand_-True  
-_Guren bêd enni_-Q, "my heart tells me"  
-_Nalyë valkane wilwarindon. Haryalyë hónya._-Q You are as vague as a butterfly; You have my heart  
-_San merin sa haryalyë alassë nó vanyalyë ambarello; Ore nin karitas antai lynna._-Q, Then I hope you have happiness before you pass from this world; I wish to give it to you.  
-_Násië_-Q, "So be it, though the literal translation is closer to "Amen/May it Be."  
-_Melda_-Q, beloved  
-_Ruvumen_-Q, Take me  
-_Voronwië_-Q, "Patience". Though, ironically, the literal translation in this is 'everlasting, or good quality' *rolls eyes at Rilien.*  
-_Ai lá_-Ai, of course, is 'oh' and then 'please', both Q  
-_Tá_-Q, hush  
-_Meleth_-my love  
-_Evëa_-Q-I'm coming ;)  
-_Hîr vuin_-my lord  
-_Goheno-nin_-I'm sorry/forgive me  
-_Baw_-No


End file.
